of youth, and uncertainties
by Dorminchu
Summary: They worked things out in the end.


_a/n: Promised myself I'd write some Jean/Mikasa._

* * *

Afternoon. Outside, the clouds are sparse patches of grey, not enough to block out the sunlight.

They're waiting for news in some nameless outpost. He's in the doorway when she passes by.

―Oi, Mikasa, he says. Wait a moment.

She humors his request. Jean catches up to her within the span of a few seconds, by her side in half that time.

―There's a lot that's been weighing on my mind, he tells her. Can we talk?

She doesn't move, doesn't say anything. Jean figures that's his cue to keep going, even if it kills him. It does kill him, opening his mouth. He can't stop.

―I just wanted to let you know that…I'm grateful. For everything you've done. And…and I know you probably don't feel the same, about—

―I know what you're going to say, Jean, she says, turns in the same moment.

He's speechless. She's right on the money. Is this the moment, he wonders. Will she let him go?

A pause.

The rest of the world is obscured when she leans up to press their lips together. He's surprised, obviously. Dumbfounded, but not in the giddy way of some young teenage fancy. He's just confused. This can't be real. He doesn't kiss back. He blinks a few times when she draws away, and he notices the colour dusting her cheeks.

―I wanted you to know, she tells him quietly, speaking to his chest. In case I never got the chance to tell you.

Jean's breath flutters. He wants to touch her but he's a little frightened, to be honest.

―I…I see.

He feels stupid, saying that. He knows he should comfort her, he wants to comfort her. He wants to thank her for saving Armin, for taking the risk he's long since given up on. His hand falls on her shoulder and she pauses.

―Mikasa?

His voice is suddenly rough. He clears his throat. She looks up at him. He wants to tell her that he's sorry he didn't have the fortitude to be honest with her before all this, that's all.

―You don't have to deal with…with this, alone, he says awkwardly. All right?

She doesn't respond. Just looks at him for the longest time.

―Thank you, is all she says.

They part.

One evening, they're alone together. People will know. Maybe some of those people will be dead tomorrow.

She looks at him, and there's a wisdom behind her dark eyes that pierces something inside him. It's sad and indescribably beautiful.

―Do you really think we'll all survive? she asks him.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't want to understand what she is asking him because he isn't sure if he can answer her.

―I dunno, he says. His mouth is dry. I reckon that's not very likely.

Mikasa looks almost curious. It's hard to tell what she's thinking.

―Do you want me to kiss you? she asks, composed as ever.

It's weird, when Mikasa Ackerman phrases it so. Jean resists some temptation to scratch the back of his neck.

―Um, he says, because words are failing him right now.

―I figured you would understand, she says. He's taken aback by this. She's cautious with him, perhaps more so than he is with her. It's funny, in a sense, how that works. Parallels turned on their heads.

―Are you…all right with this? he asks, and he's just wondering if he's going to ruin it for her when she smiles. It's a ghost of a smile, really.

―I trust you, Jean.

 _Trust_. The word is like a dream, coming from her. He feels unworthy of that, somehow. Of her heart right in his hands.

Then the world is obscured by her curtain of raven hair. He's not sure what to do. She breathes in and out through her nose and he listens. Her mouth is warm, smooth where his is still a little chapped. She tastes like nothing and that simplicity is beautiful in and of itself for reasons his sixteen-going-on-seventeen brain cannot hope to properly convey. It doesn't matter, he tells himself. She's alive, you're alive. Enjoy it while you can.

He doesn't know if this is what he ever wanted anymore. His heart trembles on his chest when she cranes her neck and he feels her naked throat.

―Mikasa, he says. I….

She pulls away and there's something else in her dark eyes that is not hurt.

―I trust you, she repeats, takes his hands in hers, placing them on her shoulders.

He gazes down at her for what feels like a century. Her hand comes up and cups his face, gently drawing him down.

It's strange. A blur of emotional confusion and yes, they fumble.

Naked, she kisses him once, on the forehead, and sits down and he doesn't know what to think. He ducks his head and tries to remember how to breathe, and she gives him this small privacy. It's ironic. He regains what little composure is left to him, looks up, running his hands up her sides like he can commit the simple image of her to memory. There is at once, a kind of childish guilt and a sweet relief to this moment. Admittance comes as easily as breathing. She leans down to him and this time he kisses her first. This time he runs his hands over her back, swallows a noise when her tongue meets teeth and she's slow, insistent in her pace. He wants to follow her. He does follow her. He pulls her into him and lets her kiss him until he's lightheaded, dizzy as she parts from him, comes back and she's close. They tremble, lose themselves, settle, respectively.

She's quiet in the aftermath. He wonders what Eren will think. He wonders why she even came to him in the first place.

It's not enough to stop him from rolling over, nudging her shoulder blade with his forehead. Not enough for her to lean into him, that ghost of a smile back on her pale lips.


End file.
